


Injured Cheek

by foulrescent



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Bar, Darts, Doctor!Steve, Drinking, Drunken Shenanigans, Flirting, Kissing, M/M, ZAYN MALIK causes all this, brief mention of choking, police officer!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foulrescent/pseuds/foulrescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barton says apologetically, “I’m sorry I fucked your ass up.”</p><p>The pain comes back with a slow and steady heat. Bucky grunts, “Fuck off. Go bother someone else and fuck their ass up.”</p><p>“Hey, settle,” Steve says from behind him, warm, large hands appearing on his lower back, getting rid of the tenseness. His breath is suddenly close to Bucky’s ear and Bucky’s stoked that he can’t see Steve, because paired along with the sultry voice and jaw line, he doesn’t think he could handle it.</p><p>(Bucky gets two darts in his buttocks, courtesy of Clint, and Steve is the heavenly doctor that stitches him up on a table top)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Injured Cheek

**Author's Note:**

> Titled inspired by Mickey Milkovich's warning to Ian: Just easy on the injured cheek. 
> 
> Warnings are in the tags.  
> All mistakes are my own.

Bucky searches for a hair tie to gather the length of his hair, which he’s not technically allowed, up. Even though he's the sergeant, Stark continues to reprimand him. He was put on filing for a month in June, due to "gorgeous, distracting locks that aren't part of the dress code". When he finds his wrists bare and Darcy’s wrists bare, after getting her to check, he considers using a rubber band. It’s elastic and stretchy enough, but apparently it also creates a giant knot in your hair, and it isn’t particularly pretty. 

“Don’t even think about it, Sarge,” Darcy warns him, learning over the bar, “or your hair will have to go _snip!_ and then you’ll cry about the uneven strands and then you’ll go all Zayn Malik—lose all your charm.”

“It’s the eyes!” Barton announces, grabbing Bucky’s cheeks, squeezing his face so hard that he splutters spit.

Darcy grimaces, wiping the saliva off the bar top. “Go fucking play darts or somethin’. I’ve got other customers, you goons.”

And then they’re up and at it. Bucky feels a little dazed, a little eager to try anything, so he mumbles into Barton’s ear as they’re stumbling towards the dartboard, which is past the pool table, “Maybe I should go Zayn Malik.”

“Leave me?” Barton pouts, clears his throat, “Us?” He gestures to the corner booth, where the rest of the team is sat.

He grabs Barton’s shoulders, giving him a hug with minimal effort. He assures, “No. I meant the ‘air. I should buzz it off.”

“You don’t need your hair to be beautiful. Fucking do it.”

“You know what, I just might. Only if you hit bulls-eye 10 times in a row,” Bucky promises and then blanches, “Fuck, fuck, pretend I didn’t say that. I did not just fucking say that.”

Barton fucking grins, pulling Bucky closer. Barton must know that this deal isn’t fair, because he _must_ know that he’s just about as good as Bucky when it comes to hitting targets, on the field and in shitty, little, rundown bars with ancient dartboards.

“Barton, I was joking,” Bucky quips as they get in front of the board. He looks at it and then back at Barton. He uses Barton’s first name, “ _Clint_ , I’ll make another bet. You hit 10 in a row and I’ll dye Banner’s hair green in his sleep.”

“No take-backs.”

“Fuck you, you fucking fuck,” and he keeps swearing, even as Barton hits 3 in a row, and curses Barton out as he watches him collect the darts.

He leans against the wall of the board, beside it, and watches another dart wedge into the middle. He sighs, crossing his arms, and pouts. He feels buzzed, maybe a little high from the events of this week, so if actually drools a little bit when he sees the beautiful man playing pool, who can blame him.

He stares intensely at the blond haired, smiling man. He’s all perfect, white teeth and smiles, his shoulders are a wide expanse of skin that’s available to scrape kisses and peck at, and they narrow into a skinny waist. He looks up, eyebrows raised at Bucky’s stare, and no one can blame Bucky when he snatches the dart, in the air, millimetres from the bulls-eye, just to show off.

“Man!” Barton cries out.

“It won’t count, Barton. Hey, let’s make it more interesting,” he promises and then places himself under the board, strands of hair almost covering the bulls-eye. He looks at that man playing pool and is a little disappointed when the man’s back is facing him, but then he brightens up, because the ass he’s presented with instead makes him a little giddy.

Barton downs a shot--vodka, probably--that’s mysteriously appeared out of nowhere, along several others, and then a dart whips above Bucky’s head. He whistles, Bucky yells over to Darcy, “Sweetheart, can we have an apple?”

Barton hits bulls-eye through the apple, which is expected, really. The apple juice goes everywhere and Bucky has to wipe it out of his eyes, slick back his hair with it. Bucky continues to create a few more obstacles, but Barton still reaches 8 in a row. This makes Bucky realise that he’s lost a bit of his creativity—both from ogling the guy at the billiard table and downing the vodka that Stark keeps ordering them.

The guy’s playing with a couple of others, a black dude and a petite looking blonde. He’s clearly attractive and Bucky doesn’t second guess the looks the guy keeps on giving him, raised eyebrows and silent laughs of fond amusement, odd, small smiles that are effecting Bucky’s right mind to think, so no one can blame him when he borrows Banner’s tie, because Stark’s is much too expensive to be used in games, and ties it around Barton’s eyes.

“Easy-peasy, man,” Barton huffs and he lives up to his word, because he’s only one bulls-eye away from Bucky becoming a ratty, young punk again.

“OK, you dick,” Bucky grumbles and presses three darts, side-on, into Barton’s palm. He gazes into Barton’s blindfolded eyes. “You throw them at the same time. Banner, spin ‘im around a little. You better not miss ‘cause I’ll be standing under, but then you better fucking miss because I’m not shaving my hair off. Asshole.”

Banner looks dazzled and even more contemplative when Bucky edges himself underneath the board, front pressed against the wall. He gives Banner a glare over his shoulder, softens a little when running his eyes across the crowd that’s formed around them, and then fucking winks when he catches sight of that damn, drop-dead-gorgeous man. He fucking blushes, which makes Bucky enter another type of lustful high.

Barton is more of a drunken mess when he comes to from the spinning, Banner having to sturdy him. Barton waves him off, other hand clutching his stomach at a supposed sickness, “Leave me be, I need to focus.”

“All this because of Zayn Malik, you really want to ruin our friendship?” Bucky sighs.

“Are you guys fucking kidding me?” Darcy groans.

“I need to see Bucky bald,” Stark declares.

“For fuck’s sake, hurry—WHAT THE FUCK, FUCKING, FUCKFUCKFUCK, nghhhhh, is that a dart in my ass?” Bucky yells out, joining the gasps and short breaths of laughs. Barton fucking asks, “Did I win?” and Bucky’s gripping the side of his injured cheek, pressing tensely against it to make the stinging stop, but it’s coming from two spots and he’s _overwhelmed_ , and then the fucking cute motherfucker that was playing pool crowds around him with a big chest, hands on his shoulder, forearm, saying, “I’m a doctor, let me help.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, grips onto the kind, hot doctor, cheekily says, “You can help me all you want.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Darcy rolls her eyes, also at Bucky’s side, “You boys and your games.”

A camera flash goes off, but Bucky doesn’t say anything. One sense of his is overpowering the rest, his nose inhaling the peppermint breath and coconut scented chest. It’s a nice chest, he decides, as he presses his head against it. Darcy and the man are supporting either side, directing him towards one of the clear tables. He gets laid down on it, knees hitting the edge. He bites into his bottom lip to stop from crying out.

“Hey,” a voice says into his ear, utterly charming and accented with Brooklyn, “I’m Steve. I’m qualified to do this, if you let me. It’ll save you a hospital trip.”

“I let you,” he drawls, then clears his throat, “I’m, um, Bucky. I wasn’t planning on learning your name like this.”

“And how were you planning to get it?” Steve asks. Bucky can’t see him, but he swears that Steve’s grinning a similar one to the one he gave when he got the 8 ball in at the end.

“I would’ve brought you a drink,” Bucky starts to say.

Barton’s suddenly at the end of the table Bucky’s face is at, eyes wide and mouth stretched apologetically. “I’m sorry I fucked your ass up.”

Now that he’s reminded about it, the pain comes back with a slow and steady heat. He grunts, “Fuck off. Go bother someone else and fuck their ass up.”

“Natasha’s gonna kill me for you, if that makes you feel better,” Barton solemnly tells him.

That does make him feel better, but, “How the fuck does she know about this already?” To answer him, another flash goes off, Stark behind the phone, “Fuck off.”

“Hey, settle,” Steve says from behind him, warm, large hands appearing on his lower back, getting rid of the tenseness. His breath is suddenly close to Bucky’s ear and Bucky’s stoked that he can’t see Steve, because paired along with the sultry voice and jaw line, he doesn’t think he could handle it.

Steve tells him, “I’ll get them out for you, but I need you to relax. You won’t feel a thing if you relax. OK, so, this isn’t an ideal workplace, it isn’t even sterilised…”

“Hey! I wiped down this table less than 10 minutes ago,” Darcy persists.

“Head down, let me talk,” Steve pushes down against his neck as he goes up to snicker about Darcy’s lack of actually cleaning, because he swears there’s some beer soaking the bottom of his t-shirt. Fingers dig into the side of his neck, gently; almost like one of the massages Natasha gives everyone after being out in the field.

Steve continues, “One’s not in too deep—“

“That’s what she said,” Stark sniggers.

“—but the other one is almost halfway, but then we have to consider the denim.”

“No,” Bucky moans, “These are my favourite jeans.”

“I can see why, your thighs look fucking fantastic,” Steve compliments, completely stuttering off his professional persona. Before Bucky can say anything, Steve clears his throat, “Darcy, I’ll need scissors, tweezers,” he hums, “maybe tongs. Whisky, two bottles. Can I have a metal dish and some tissues, too? Bandages, if you have any. Thank you. Gloves, too. Keep your head down, Bucky. Sam, can you hold a light to, um, the injured area?”

“You can call it ‘ass’,” Bucky smirks, “It’s great that you’re getting comfortable with it already.”

Barton’s still hovering around, Bucky can tell by the scruffy converses. Steve’s hand is still comforting around his neck and he wants those fingers there forever, maybe also around the front of his throat when Steve hovers above him, hips cocking back and forth, lips on his—okay, Bucky can’t think of shit like this right now.

There’s a clutter of things being placed on the table, Steve muttering, “Here we go,” and the snips that get chorused into Bucky’s ears are more heartbreaking than the one that Darcy demonstrated about cutting his hair.

He feels Steve steady one hand on his lower back, right above his right cheek, and he can’t help but moan, “Harder.”

There’s air around Bucky’s left cheek now, the denim slowly disappearing, and he can almost feel Steve’s breath hitch, “Don’t distract me and maybe I’ll give you my number afterwards.”

“All right, doc,” Bucky grins a grin that he’s happy to have hidden into the table, because he probably looks too over the moon for others to handle.

His hips are lifted up by Steve and something soft and flush is pushed underneath his stomach and crotch, and it’s something nice to lie on. He gets a whiff of coconut, knows that it belongs to Steve. “You’re a real sweetheart, doc.”

“Stay still. Sam, bring the light closer.”

Fingers press into his left cheek and he lets out a whoosh of air, both from the pain and the contact. “Normally I don’t put out until the third date.”

“More like the end of the first one,” Barton snorts.

“You can fuck off, Barton!” He yells.

“Hey, hey, relax,” Steve’s hands are on his hips, which are bare because his t-shirt has ridden up, and the warmth does let him settle (so does the promise of how Steve’s hands fit onto his hips when—), “Tell me when to stop.”

“It’s not my first time, doc. So—oh, fuck, you coulda warned me,” he thrives, clenching his jaw, “What a poor waste of whiskey, two fucking bottles. You’re paying for it.”

“One’s for you,” Steve laughs and, fuck, if that isn’t a lovely sound, and then there’s a bottle next to his ear, which he takes and gulps a long sip as quickly as he can.

Barton’s in front of him again, seamlessly pouting at the free whiskey Bucky is entitled to. He looks like he might complain, but Barton surprises him by teasing, “This is the best love story I’ve ever bared witness too.”

Time passes quickly, the excruciating moments of an actual dart being plunked out has him spluttering and extending his neck out to let more than a sip of whiskey pass through. Customers slowly filter out, but not before congratulating Bucky on being such a sport about the whole ordeal. Dugan, a regular, smacks him hard on the back, leans in real close and says quietly, “Tell him to go soft on the injured cheek. Ya know, back in the bedroom.”

That has him blushing just a little bit, but Barton howls with laughter because _of course he_ was close enough to hear it. Darcy has to close up, but she hangs around just so the operation can end successfully, with her blessing and the bar. Barton sticks around too because Sam, The Official Light Holder, has a shift at the hospital in two hours, and Barton offers to reign into that title. Banner and Stark leave sometime halfway. Stark affirms, “You don’t have to come in tomorrow, Bucky. We don’t need you gushing about the doc’s expert thrusting patterns, because he knows just where to— _hey_ , Bruce, wait for me!”

“So,” Steve pauses, “Do you want to keep the darts?”

“Hell no,” Darcy retorts.

Barton’s sitting right in front of Bucky’s view, after complaining about his shoulder getting sore by holding the lamp, so the only thing Bucky sees are the traitor’s eyes light up. “Of course!” When he spots Bucky’s glare, he concedes, “Memories, Barnes, memories. I’ll hang them up in a frame at the precinct, next to a portrait of you and your baldness. Fuck, I’m brilliant.”

Right, because Barton still got a fucking bulls-eye whilst the other two darts went into Bucky’s ass. He doesn’t say anything. He closes his eyes at the soothing way that Steve’s hands press into his lower back, right above his left injured cheek. He lets out a little moan, just a tiny appreciation for the tense muscle loosening, and the hands freeze.

Steve clears his throat, “I’ll patch it up.”

Once the wounds are covered up and Steve’s prying fingers disappear from the surrounding of the wounds, he digs his hands into Bucky’s armpits and lifts him up. Bucky settles on his two feet, head just a little dizzy, and turns around to face Steve. He grins when he sees a heavy flush on Steve’s cheeks and grips on his bicep, balancing himself.

“Thanks, doc.”

“It was a pleasure,” Steve says, grinning, taking the gloves off, “Not seeing you hurt, but, like, meeting you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Fucking kiss already,” Barton groans.

Bucky looks at Barton. “Shut the fuck up, you fucking— _nnnghhh_.”

Steve’s kissing him. Steve is actually fucking kissing him, one hand on his neck and the other on his cheek (thankfully the one on his face). He snakes his hands around Steve’s waist, pulling them closer together. He lets a noise and Steve hums in counter.

His opens his mouth, just a little, and drags his tongue along Steve’s bottom lip, and then sucks onto it when Steve opens his mouth too. It’s exhilarating, the feeling of Steve’s hand on his neck and the warmth of Steve’s mouth on his. The kiss he thought Steve would give out tonight was small and chaste, but this, _this_ , is something he couldn’t have dreamt of half drunk on whiskey with large hands on his ass. Darcy whoops. 

Steve pulls away, clearly says, “I’m sorry I didn’t ask.”

“I want to,” Bucky confirms and pulls Steve, once again, closer, “I really want to, doc.”

Bucky gets pushed against the table, the edge thankfully hitting the back of his thighs. Steve’s hand is in his hair now, pulling just a little bit to tip Bucky’s head back in order to suck on his top lip. Steve then pushes Bucky further up the table and Bucky yelps, because, fuck, the throbbing pain on his butt cheek isn’t going away any time soon.

“Sorry,” Steve apologises and then pets his left hip, a light touch, pulls away for the second time. His cheeks are flushed, stance too eager for being so far away, and Bucky knows, even if he distracted the doctor a little, that he’s still getting Steve’s number.

“I’ll clean this up,” Steve tells Darcy.

She shakes her head, steps forward to pat his shoulder and to give it a reassuring squeeze. “I normally would’ve let you, but you deserve to bone Bucky Barnes.” She winks at Bucky, as if to say,  _well aren't you lucky_ _?_

“Thanks, Darcy. I’ll see you Friday.”

They stand around awkwardly for a minute, and then Bucky says bye to Darcy and Barton breaks out of his silent trace and drools, “That was the hottest fucking thing, ever.”

“I advise to not go through with the bet,” Steve suddenly says and it has Bucky beaming, “Bucky’s gone through enough trauma and I think losing something personal, like hair, will just add more weight onto his worries. We don’t want him uncomfortable in the healing phase.”

“Doctors orders?” Bucky nudges Steve’s shoulder. He’s limping just a little, but the pain is now just a subtle feeling. He’s used to it now. He ignores Barton’s protesting.

“Doctors orders.” Steve nods.

They stop on the curb. Barton thankfully filters away without a word towards the street to bid down a cab, even though it’s past midnight. Bucky smiles, in a way that he hopes is flirtatious and cheeky. “Could the doctor also order me to kiss this guy named Steve?”

Steve kisses him, chaste and small like the one he imagined. “Take my jumper, it’s cold.”

He watches as Steve undoes the bundle and he watches Steve lean in close, wrapping the sweater around his waist, covering the hole in his jeans. “Thank you, for everything.”

“It’s OK,” Steve informs, “It went surprisingly well, you know. Other backyard operations don’t work out too well.”

“You regularly operate illegally?”

“I help out where I can. I, um, don’t think there’s a rick of infection, especially if you’re up to date with your tetanus shot. Also, my number’s in the pocket of your uninjured cheek if you need anything and, you know, also use it to organise a date. I’d really like to see you again, but with more face than buttock.”

Bucky digs his hand in his pocket and then smiles at Steve’s babbling, utterly fond. He leans over and kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth. He should be embarrassed. This absolute stranger who’s he’s been attempting to flirt with turned out patching up his ass after two darts hit it. He’s ever so thankful that Steve already feels like a structure of a home.

“I would blow you to thank you, but…”

Steve blushes and it’s so lovely, that Bucky has to reach out and touch the side of Steve’s face. Steve laughs, “Take me out to dinner first. Text me when you’re free.”

“You already fondled my ass,” Bucky teases and then Barton is yelling at him, a cab by his side. He sighs, steps back, gives Steve another long once-over. “I’ll see you when I see you, Stevie.”

It’s awkward getting into the cab without feeling pain and once Bucky’s in a comfortable position, a position that has the driver giving him an odd look, he waves at Steve, who’s watching him from the curb. He rolls down the window, loudly tells Barton, “Throw more darts at me! I want to do that again.”

They drive off with the gift of Steve’s laughter (and the dud gift of Barton slapping Bucky’s ass, the right, thankfully uninjured cheek).

 

 

 

 

Five months later, a bloody bullet in a frame joins a wall that also has two equally as bloody darts on it, and a picture of Bucky on a table top, laying down with his ass out, Sam holding a lamp to it, Clint on the floor with his eyes wide, and Steve with his sleeves rolled up and an expression that is no doubt determination.

Natasha looks at the get-up with a steely gaze and then at Clint and then at Bucky. “Why do we have a shrine of the things that were in your ass?”

“Steve’s dick isn’t on it,” Bucky points out, smirking.

“Yet,” Clint counters.

“Stay the fuck away from my boyfriends dick, you fucking…” Warm hands settle on his hips and he leans back, closing his eyes with a content smile. Steve kisses the side of his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! x


End file.
